Speed Kills
by Rylum
Summary: Running fast is easy, having a body that can handle that speed is a different matter. Short oneshot from Sonic's perspective about the toll running has on his body.


Disclaimer: Sonic and Sonic the Hedgehog are owned by Sega.

* * *

Speeding on my way, the rush of the wind hitting me. Nothing can stop me, nothing can hurt me, I've made sure of that.

But it wasn't always this painless. My body, young as it is, shows merciless signs of one who looks like he's been beaten and whipped into slavery for years. But you'd never think that, would you? The only think you see, is some too-cool blue-blur who's every girls - and even a few guys, I'll admit – dream come true.

All my life, I've known I was different. It's not the typical 'stand out of the crowd, swim upstream' different that most teenagers like to place themselves into. I mean physically different. I could run, when others could only walk, for miles at a time. Back then I remember thinking, I bet I could clear the entire breadth of Mobius in only a couple hours, if only my mom would let me go that fast.

* * *

"Look at you, all bruised up again. You're not to be going that fast," she ridicules.

"It's not my fault, my feet just get a mind of their own. You can't expect me to stay still."

I always come home with new bruises whenever I go out running. It sort of comes with the hobby – like a rock climber might fall and break a few bones here and there, but it won't kill them, not if they're good, right? I don't mind the pain. Most of the time.

My mom says if I keep running the way I do, I'll run into a mountain head first and splatter myself all over it. Shows what she knows; I can turn on a dime in under a half-second of warning.

But she does have a point. Ever since I could walk, I kept trying to go faster and faster. At first, it was just trouble enough keeping my balance between starting up and stopping. After that, it became breathing. I don't mean just gaining a runners steady breathing rhythms, or getting the lungs to a point where they won't burn from the exertion. If I'm running fast enough, just being able to suck in air becomes difficult.

I even fainted one time, going out for a run as a storm was approaching. I was headed back home, pleased with how easily my lungs were able to keep up that day. That was because I was running with the wind. Heading back home, I hit a down slope while going against the wind. I hadn't perfected the stop yet, at least not downhill, so it was either maintain my loosely controlled acceleration or tumble headfirst into the rocky ground. The latter was probably the safer bet, but that's never fun.

Imagine trying to get a gulp of water from the surrounding mists of a waterfall, that's what breathing feels like when you're going as fast as I do. This just made it worse. I remember feeling lightheaded, grasping for air, yet forcing my legs to keep under my equilibrium as my mass barreled down the hill. Then all I heard around me was a slow crashing sound. I couldn't see so much as feel myself slowly head towards the earth, like listening to a record player steadily decreasing in speed, before finally coming to a quiet, dead stop.

* * *

Of course I didn't die. I just fainted, is all. There wasn't even all that much pain involved in it, at least until I woke up and felt my back molded over a rock jutting out of the ground. I think I was out for less than a minute, I could still see my dust trail settling. I earned six painful stitches down my back for that one, and was barred from running for two weeks.

Fine by me, it hurt like hell just to move for a week after that, and another two weeks before it was healed up enough to bear the pain of moving faster than a slow jog. The doctors said the injury would never fully heal, and the scar would remain there for years to come. They were only half-right.

The body I have now is a sleek running machine, able to climb the sharpest inclines without paying homage the merciless god of gravity. I'd even say I was one sexy hog, if I didn't know I'd be lying through my quills. Hah, that's funny, 'through my quills'. You see, over the years I've accumulated more scar tissue than I thought mobianly possible.

On the outside I'm one lean mean looking hog. But behind my fur and this mess of quills is some of the toughest skin you'll ever see. But enough digression, back to my story.

* * *

That scar was to be the first of many I'd receive. I mentioned earlier that I'd often come home, filled with bruises, gashes, and cuts. As if my constant disappearance of me for hours on end wasn't bad enough to deal with, my family had to keep a full assortment of first aid supplies within easy reach. Now, easy reach for some people means hidden in the various compartments of their bathroom, or under a sink. I'd come home from a run to have the first aid kit sitting on the kitchen table, my mom sitting in one of the chairs, holding a bottle of peroxide in one hand, a roll of gauze in the other, and look of disdain and worry stamped upon her face. . No matter how much she berated me, mom knew she couldn't stop me.

Thinking back on it, it must have pained her greatly to have to patch up her only son day after day. At first she thought it might be bullies, since I didn't really run fast enough to injure myself until the beginning years of school. I even would've preferred she kept thinking that, if it would mean I could keep running.

Ah, but how does one, who claims he can turn faster than the eye can catch, who's speed lays well founded so called laws-of-physics to waste, get injured day after day? Ever get hit by a fly in the face while riding on a bike? Kinda stings the first few times, doesn't it? Imagine hitting it going fifty times or more that speed. That's the kinda hurt that speed gets you. At that speed, the insects, the specs of rubble, heck, even the damned rain hurts so much it made me cry on more than one occasion.

The real bad gashes came whenever I bypassed someone riding a bike, or any sort of vehicle that picked up loose dirt or rocks as it passed by, or rather, as I passed it by. Thinking about chasing after cars just to show off my speed was akin to looking outside as a massive hail storm was coming down, and thinking, 'Hey, I bet it would be fun to strip naked, shave myself, and lay down in the street while those ice shards dig their way into my flesh over and over.

But I did it anyway. The speed I was going, it was incredible. It's like a drug, an addiction. The only reason I bore the pain for so long, day in and out, was to get the next rush, the new high, that rush of adrenaline hitting me as I pushed my top speed just that extra bit faster!

Like all addictions, it comes at a cost. This one wasn't nearly as much mental damage as it is physical. Underneath now, behind this mess of skin and quill, is a scarred body who's texture would be easier to compare to burnt rubber than any skin tone. Every day I still run, and every day I add another few dents to my already crater-like skin. It doesn't hurt anymore, I don't feel much of anything. I think it's because most of my nerves are either dead, or to accustomed to pain to perceive anything less than a kick in the ribs.

I shouldn't really complain. I mean, if it wasn't for my early running days, I wouldn't have stood stage-one against Robotnik and his army. If you think being able to casually stand up, even give off a quip remark occasionally, after just getting slammed by two-tons of metal is easy, think again. The only reason I'm alive right now is because my skin is tougher than leather. You think that echidna Knuckles is tough because he punches through walls? Well I run through them. I let them slam into me, every time I break the sound barrier.

This skin is like an armor, only there are times when I wish I could just take it off. It's not that I'm incapable of love, it's just that I don't think anyone who goes chasing around after me, screaming about how 'cool it must be to run so fast,' might be a little more than disturbed to see what's underneath it all.

Full of craters, cold, able to take the harshest beatings and still comply unquestioningly, it seems Robotnik would be the only one who could care for such a thing. To bad he's an evil megalomaniacal genius bent on world domination. But, so long as he's around, I've got a reason to run fast, and no one can call me a masochist.

Although, sometimes, I wish the pain of running would come back. That feeling, along with all the others. I'm still a virgin, yet to feel the soft touch of someone else. It's not that I'm afraid, it's that I can't. I'm always surrounded by fans, all eager to take my autograph, or offering to buy me a meal, or a round of drinks.

The last feeling I remember is being hugged by my mom after one of those perilous runs. It was a faint feeling. I could almost feel her warmth, before everything went numb. Since I was a kid, I haven't felt anyone else's touch.

Since I started to run.


End file.
